A Seven-Year Old's Perspective

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"Want to know how to get a two year old to do what you want him to do?

In our large family, my children discovered how to interact with each other, without my constant intervention. They all aquirued wonderful people skills because they lived in a house with ten other very different personalities who all shared one full bathroom. Just imagine the tact it required to squeeze any sink and mirror time in the bathroom if you happened to have five or six older sisters!

Some interpersonal techniques were learned through the old trial and error method. I did not tolerate fighting or yelling among my children, so each child had to figure out which approach gained co-operation from another sibling. I was proud of their negotiating skills.

For example, one evening when Mark was seven and his brother Joseph was two, Mark sat on the floor and reached over the edge of the tub to play with his little brother who was in bubbly, warm water.

Mark turned to me and asked, "Want to know how to get a two-old to do what you want him to do?

I smiled in anticipation and nodded.

"Watch this", Mark commanded.

He asked Joseph, "Joseph, do you want the orange ball or the blue boat?"

Joseph chose the blue boat.

Hardly taking a breath, Mark asked his little brother the very same question but this time he changed the word order of his request, "Joseph, do you want the blue boat or the orange ball?"

Joseph dropped the boat and reached for the ball.

Mark turned around with a proud little smile on his face, looked at me and said, "A two-year old always choose the last thing that you say!"

Where Does She Get This Stuff?

three-year-old Lucy was perched like a little elf on a high stool

"Lucy, whose your favorite, mum or dad?"

One afternoon, I was making dinner, standing at the counter with my back to our three youngest children. Katie and Anthony were lounging around the kitchen table, with three-year-old Lucy perched like a little elf on a high stool, happily swinging her legs.

Simply making conversation, Katie who was about eight, asked Lucy,
"Lucy, whose your favorite, mum or dad?"
Lucy replied,"Both!"
Still facing the counter, I looked over my shoulder and intruded on their conversation,
"Smart answer, Lucy."
Lucy was not done, though,
"But she's not my real mum, Mary is.

Katie rolled her eyes, slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand and said incredulously,
"Where does she get this stuff?"I tried to explain as simply as I could,
"Well, the Holy Spirit is in her heart and she listens to His voice."
Lucy jumped right back into the discussion and chanted in a sing-song, lilting voice,
"That's right. God the Father in my heart. Baby Jesus in my heart. Holy Spirit in my heart. Mother Mary in my heart.... but.... I still like mum and dad the best!"
Katie rolled her eyes and plunked her head down on the table with a loud sigh,
"Where does she get this stuff?"
I just laughed.
A few weeks later, as I crouched down to tie Lucy's shoelace, Lucy picked up the small gold cross I wore around my neck and said,
"This is the cross of Jesus and the glory of God shines all around it."
Katie rolled her eyes again, slapped her forehead and asked,
"WHERE does she get this stuff?

The Battle Of The Bugs

try pulling every sticky nit off every single strand of hair on ten heads.

The phrase 'quit nit-picking' took on a whole new meaning after our official Lice Week.

Once again the school had sent notes home about another outbreak of head lice but of course I was confident that we had never had and never would get lice. Over the phone, the school secretary asked me to check Rachel's head. Since she was in morning kindergarten, Rachel had missed the head check that afternoon. It seems that lice epidemics thrive in the younger grades and slowly spread through the entire school.
I laughed and said, "I just washed her hair last night; I really don't think she has any but I'll check anyway."
I called Rachel over to a bright window, parted her hair and peered closely at her scalp. Her head was literally crawling with bugs! After screaming shrilly, I picked up the phone again only to hear the secretary say,
"I guess that is a 'yes', Mrs. Juneau."
I was mortified; Rachel's head was covered and another daughter saw a bug crawling on her forehead in a mirror at school!! I get itchy just remembering Lice Week. Of course the school assured me that lice like clean hair but that did not reassure me at all. In the end, all Rachel's siblings had at least a couple of nits. No one could return to school until they were completely lice and nit free.
Do you have any idea the work that faced us?
In those days health nurses and doctors told us to wash all bedding, favourite stuffed animals, throw pillows, afghans, towels, combs, hair brushes and hair accessories, hats, mitts, scarves, sweaters, clothes, pyjamas and house coats and finally both sets of snowsuits (the good set and the farm set). In addition, it was necessary to vacuum Chesterfields, chairs, rugs and anything touched by a head of hair. Those directions amounted to almost 60 loads of laundry! I filled a bathtub almost to the ceiling with stuff I had to wash. I solemnly swear, I do not exaggerate but that was not the hardest job in the next few days.
I had to wash ten heads of hair with awful smelling shampoo, then comb out every nit with vinegar and a special fine-tooted steal comb. Are you familiar with the saying, 'oh quit nit -picking'? Well, it takes on a whole new meaning after you've tried to pull every sticky nit off single strands of hair on ten heads.
So what does a slightly paranoid, overwhelmed mother do? She arranges everyone according to age and size to simultaneously check each others' head. At least that helped with the more obvious eggs.
However, I was given a wonderful gift. A couple of my kids became expert nit pickers. The best nit pickers were the detail oriented offspring, who were slightly obsessive-compulsive; I grew to treasure that particular weakness during the next couple of weeks because one overlooked nit could explode into hundreds of offspring in a matter of days. Now that could cause a nightmare!
I wished I could say that this episode was the one and only "Battle of the Bugs" our family endured but kindergarten classes are notorious hotbeds for lice; the kids are always head to head examining something utterly fascinating with friends.
At least the next time lice hopped on a Juneau head we were battle ready.

First Choice Home Haircuts: I Don't Think So!

my daughter had beautiful blond, wavy hair.

Imagine this scene: a little girl sits on a stool with a huge sheet tied around her neck, a pained expression on her face and a bowl on her head waiting for a haircut.

Do you remember this humourous, family kitchen scene, perhaps from the forty's or fifty's? A child sits on a stool with a huge sheet tied around their neck, a pained expression on their face and a bowl on their head as Mother stands poised behind them, scissors in hand? This family vignette came to life in the early 1990's.

Our whole family had driven out to visit a another large family for dinner. (Who else but another large family ever had enough courage to invite us, even if the meal was potluck?) Afterwards, Ginger invited my two oldest daughters to sleep over for one night.

Sarah phoned home in great excitement the next morning; my friend was cutting hair and would I allow her to give my daughter a shorter haircut,

"...PLEEEASE?"

Assuming that my friend was a competent hair dresser, I readily agreed because I was a reluctant hair stylist. This assumption was a serious lapse in common sense. Ginger must have learned how to cut hair from her grandmother because after she carefully combed my daughter's hair, she placed a bowl on her head to act as a cutting guide. My oldest daughter stood on the sidelines in shocked silence as this scene unfolded.

Later that day, when Sarah rushed through the door to show me her new haircut , I managed to smile weakly at her. At least Ginger had used a very large, deep bowl as her pattern and Sarah's hair was still long enough to redeem.

Most people with a lot of kids cut their hair at home. Michael cut the boy's hair and became a confident barber. However I often panicked as I played hairdresser to the girls. In my defense I will say that I almost always manage to fix my blunders, thank God. The trick was to keep my daughters' hair long. Even then, I trimmed it with great fear and trembling because an odd genetic deficiency cripples me; I find it difficult to cut straight. The consequences of my handicap meant that I constantly juggled back and forth, from side to side, cutting a bit more hair each time. My brilliant strategy was to only trim a bit of hair at first. After all my adjustments, the hair was just the right length.

Of course there was the time I cut a couple of my girl's hair short, pixie style. Overall the hair style was cute but definitely not professional looking. A couple of younger daughters cut their own bangs and achieved a 'back to basics' look.Claire's creation was the worst because she cut her own bangs at three years old, with child safety scissors, an inch from her scalp in some spots and two or three inches in other spots. The only option available to me that time was to cut Clare's bangs all the same length and then to persuade her to wear stretchy, soft cloth headbands that practically covered her hairline.

However the funniest hair cutting story involved seventeen-year-old Mary and her thirteen-year-old sister, Rebecca. Rebbecca desperately needed her bangs trimmed but she refused to let me near her with a pair of scissors. She was actually very astute, I must admit.

Mary, however, was confident that she understood the theory behind professionally trimmed bangs. She announced that she would be pleased to help Rebecca out. Mary feathered her bangs well. Her one mistake however was to pull firmly on Rebecca's wet hair while she cut. Rebecca's hair is very curly. When Mary let go and the hair dried, her bangs sprang up and looked like they were about an inch long.

Rebecca burst into tears and Mary burst out laughing. In fact, she laughed so hard that she hit her head on the counter. Everyone came racing in and of course and started to laugh. Finally, holding back giggles, older siblings rounded up headbands, their own special pins, clips and combs and managed to console Rebecca.

Just this weekend, four years later, all the sisters were remembering the Bang's Catastrophe while laughing hysterically. Only this time Rebecca joined in.

Why Did You Have So Many Kids?

my oldest daughter is ducking behind her dad and I am pregnant with our ninth child

The very existence of a joyful mother of nine children seems to confound people.

When the words The Joy Of Mothering popped into my head as a title for my short stories it was like an epiphany for me because those few words verbalized my experience living with little people. The very existence of a joyful mother of nine children seems to confound people. However, it has been far from easy, rather it has been a long journey through confusion, guilt and public condemnation to reach the point where I can now shout loudly,
"This is my call, this is my vocation, this is my witness to the world."

After the birth of our fourth child, Michael and I struggled to understand exactly how we were meant to live our lives. We were discussing an article by an author whose main premise was that letting go of control and trusting in God was not some abstract principle but a day-to-day practical call that included the surrender of our fertility. Of course we practised natural family planning but I was one of those rare people who could conceive long before ovulation.

As my doctor said once, "Ah, I remember reading about a woman in New Zealand, two years ago, who conceived five days before ovulation."

I raised my hand and chirped, "Well, you can add me to that list!"

Although we could not imagine how large our family would become, the words of that article resonated within both my husband and I. Guilt lifted off us and a surge of excitement, a sense of purpose welled up from within. Although it took time to really believe that none of our children were simply a failure of the natural family planning method. Many small experiences kept reinforcing the truth the for us that God called each of our children into being with our co-operation. We'd stumbled blindly at times and then a burst of clarity would shine light on our purpose.

For example, twenty-five years ago, I once again slipped into panic mode, worrying if I was pregnant with my fifth child. Suddenly a wave of peace enveloped me and my whole body relaxed.

I heard these words within me,
"This is your call. This is your vocation. This is your witness to the world."
All sorts of objections rushed into my head,
" What on earth do you mean a witness, a witness to what?- stupidityy? People don't understand. They just think we are irresponsible or idiots......"
Then unexpected joy bubbled within me and I sensed these words in my spirit, "I am with you."
Once again a blanket of peace wrapped like a blanket around me. It was an actual physical sensation and I was at peace, my mind calm and my spirit felt strong.
That was it for me; I understood and I said "yes".
Though I still cringed under disapproval from society, I always understood that my children were saving me by compelling me to dive deeper into my spirit. They challenged me to dig deeper, discovering the power of eternal Love at my very core. A love that can stand strong against all opposition

There Is More Than One Way To Win A War

This post describes the war my family has waged against vegetable lovers such as muskrats,groundhogs, rabbits, raccoons and deer, bears and mice.

The      Our garden enemies  are sneaky and tenacious; focused on a single goal- to eat and store as much of our fresh produce as possible. Sometimes they will climb inconceivable obstacles to reach our garden.

For For example, one year our carrots were disappearing at an alarming rate. Every morning there were a few neat, long holes left in the clay soil where our carrots had been. They were disappearing without a trace. Finally we began to notice that there was a long worn down pathway from our back vegetable patch, over the front yard, across the road, through the neighbour’s property, down the hill and right to the bank of the creek. This long trail was becoming more trampled down each night. My husband and elderly neighbour finally solved the mystery.

 The creek had flooded a few weeks before and probably washed out the resident muskrat's buried winter supplies.

This particular muskrat was replenishing his storehouse with our carrots. We decided to share SOME of them with him. Since he was intent on stealing the entire crop, we quickly pulled almost all the carrots, even though they would have stayed fresher in the ground. The muskrats were never as desperate again and therefore never as much of a problem again but the groundhogs were constant pests

Groundhogs are voracious eaters for their size. They can devour an entire zucchini plant, vines, leaves and vegetables before we can get out of bed.( The operative word in their name is 'hog'.) Our war plan was to assign the early risers to patrol duty, making as little noise as possible.


The kids made a real game out of this spying mission. They would tip -toe through the house, peer out the windows , tip- toe back to shake Michael awake, while one of the older kids would silently raise one of the windows and prop it open in preparation for Dad's gun.


 (Wild pest lovers, read no further, please!!!) Michael shot thirty-one FAT groundhogs one year. After a fifteen year battle, the groundhog population seemed to decline. A trapper told us that a fisher (a fierce predator) had move in across the road and now we hardly ever see a groundhog.

expect our Our wonderful guard dog managed to keep the next group of veggie lovers away- raccoons and deer. Although deer can usually snack on apples at night from the apple trees that are at the far end of our acreage without alerting the dog, the raccoons can't resist corn near the house.

 Raccoons are not subtle.  They rip and tear their way through a patch of corn, bringing six foot corn stalks down. They make a terrible sound as well, a cross between a cat screeching and a baby crying. Needless to say, this racket wakes up our dog , who in turn wakes up the entire household while he is still inside AND while he is outside because he is acting like a tough guard dog.

A couple of years ago, black bears were a problem. When one such bear found our sweet corn, he was so happy, he rolled around, flattening a huge area before he settled down to eat the prized corncobs. I don't have to tell you that we left that massive vegetable lover alone. The dumb dog could smell the bear while he was in the house and he wouldn't stop barking but he did not have a clue what he would be facing if we had let him out.

Needless to say we loved our dog more than the corn, so he stayed inside

. In   In contrast to the huge black bear, mice and chipmunks might be little but a little nibble out of a tomato or a strawberry will rot the whole fruit.

Our cats do their best to keep the mice population down but the half rotted vegetables taste like fine dining to the pigs so at least all the spoiled food doesn't go to waste.

We finally realized that the secret to the war of the vegetables is to plant almost twice as many vegetables as we need.

We plant 75 foot rows of veggies-
Some for us
Some for the vegetable lovers

ome for our farm animals (who also like weeds, thank God)  

Some to either barter with or give away to our generous friends and relatives.

There is more than one way to win a war.

A Most Comical, Engaging, Pet.

Shadow was a slobbery, drooling dog, a big black lab mix with overgrown feet and an overgrown personality.

An integral part of my children's lives for 13 years. he was the most quirky, amusing and utterly annoying pet we have ever owned. I can only list of his odd and utterly hilarious behaviour because it would take a n entire chapter in a book to really flesh out his exploits.

1. Shadow grew up with cats.

 They could cuddle up beside him or lay on top of him and he barely raised an eyebrow. He tossed mice and fish around like a cat and sometimes he played more like a cat than a dog.

2. Shadow could not stand to be left out of any activity.

 Thus the name SHADOW. 

For example, every week, we collected day old bread, distributed to families in need and of course fed our own family. Any extra went to the pigs. This jealous dog would  dash in to the pigs' feeding trough, grab a bun or long french loaf and dart away as the pigs charged after him. In a perfect doggy manner, he would bury the stolen treasure. Then Shadow would sit, with his back to his stash and guard it. The funniest scene would be in the winter when the french loaf was only half buried, Shadow seemed confident that his bread was invisible. He sat and pretended that he was innocently looking around and enjoying the scenery and not guarding illegal, stolen goods. This little act never failed to make us laugh and shake our heads.

3.Although Shadow had webbed feet and loved to swim, he was reluctant to get wet.

 The only way to persuade him to swim in the lake and cool off was to cast a bobber with a fishing rod and reel it in as fast as possible. At least once every 20 casts, Shadow would manage to snap up the fishing bobber. It was Hilarius because he would keep diving in after that stupid bobber till he was ready to drop.

4. Our dog's curiosity caused Many Mishaps

One night when a porcupine shot 30-40 quills into his face and nose, Shadow could only sleep with his face hanging over the top step in the hall. It took HOURS of patiently sneaking up while he dozed and pulling the quills out ONE AT A TIME. We tried to restrain this monstrous beast numerous times but he always shook us off .

5.Then there were the few times, a skunk sprayed him at close range and he rolled the stench into the kitchen floor. Have you ever smelled fresh, Strong, skunk spray? Our eyes teared, heads ached and our lungs burned. The entire house REEKED for days after!!! I even tried washing the floor and Shadow with tomato juice. What did work was liquid Tide.

6.Shadow hated thunder storms.

If he was alone in the house he would jump through  glass windows and doors or scratch frantically at screen windows or doors smashing, ripping, and destroying wood, frames, what ever prevented him from escaping.

In 13 years this rampage happened TOO many times and after every incident, Michael would yell

"That's it!! This dog has to go!!"

Our older "kids" would shake their heads, smile and say,

"Dad, really, Shadow is part of the family and you just can't get rid of family no matter how poorly they act."

Michael, would then glare at the miscreant, and demand,

" Go lay down, you bad dog."

Suitably chastised, Shadow would slink away and keep a low profile for a few days.

7. This dog snuck up and snatched what ever the kids were picking from the garden and eat it- corn on the cob, green beans, strawberries, raspberries.... He could not STAND to be excluded.

8. Shadow loved to sleep on beds and couches .

I really do not think he realized that he was not a lap dog! The trouble was when he tried to hop up on the furniture to cuddle, he would inadvertently dislodge people, almost pushing them off the couch. When ordered OFF the furniture, he would slink away with the most pitiful look on his face till one of us laid down beside him on the floor. Then he was content.

9. It was a mad dash to open the car door and slam it quickly before Shadow could jump in for a ride. He REALLY liked car rides.

10. Shadow wasn't a great guard dog, even though he barked loudly enough at every tiny mammal  but our resident fox, literally "out foxed" him When Michael spotted our friendly, chicken eating fox trotting towards the barn, he called for his faithful dog. Rather then chase the fox, our dog started running circles around the garage  with his nose right to the ground.  The fox had laid a false trail for Shadow!!

Michael yelled at the dog again, 

"Shadow, the fox ran over there."

Shadow looked up, tore across the yard, dove into the bushes, did a u-turn, ran up the hill  to the barn down again, then raced after the fox. If this dog had used his eyes instead of his nose, he would have headed straight into the corn.That clever fox hadn't even been frightened nor in a  terrible hurry as he laid his scent down because he knew exactly how to fool a dog.

11. Whenever Shadow caught a glimpse of the gun we were forced to use sometimes to scare away predators, Shadow became excited, agitated and LOUD. The boys  needed their wits to sneak out of the house while other siblings distracted our great hunting dog. It was always very dramatic.

When I asked my family for Shadow stories, everyone laughed with warm and humour as they remembered their beloved pet. In spite of his annoying habits he WAS a member of our family.

Socks

 The only thing that will kill you as a mother of  a large family is pairing socks.

There are solutions.

I remember a crazy campfire song, that is usually sung in rounds.

 "Black socks, they never get dirty;

the longer you wear them, the blacker they get.

Some times, I think I should wash them

but something keeps telling me
oh,  not yet, not yet, not yet"

I did not seriously consider this option, though. After ONE day stuck inside an active child's running shoe, socks NEED to be washed.Oh well, sometimes I did four loads a day and socks really didn't take up that much room.

Still socks disappeared into mountains of laundry and I could never find them all.
Socks need to be PAIRED!!!
Or do they?
That was the brilliant, out of the box sort of question I asked myself one day.

New solution

Buy LOTS of black socks in every size,throw them in a basket

and hope for the best
.
That was the plan.

I decided to simply toss them into a wicker basket with a three-foot circumference and a height of two and a half feet..
I must ad
BUT little girls don't like black socks. They like pink socks. To make matters worse my mother bought cute socks with frills and bows and patterns that the girls really needed and loved.
 NONE of them were the same!

So although I used the toss and throw method of pairing, some mornings found us frantically searching for some semblance of a pair but it made life exciting.

The House That Kids Built

Picture This scene.

Five year old Anthony is leaping off the fourth stair wearing his black cape, a purple Batman sweatshirt and his 'Mountie' hat. Three year old Lucy carries a huge, old purse stuffed with cut pieces of paper and fake money and she is trailing behind seven year old Katie who is trying to make a scrapbook.

Rachel is in the same living room playing "Magic School Bus" on the computer and Emily is upstairs changing her clothes again. Dave and Matt are building a lego plane across the hall in the family room but eighteen year old Matt is the brains behind the construction.

Mara is on the phone and Melissa is listening to music that is way too loud while leaning over the upstairs railing and complaining about life.

Michael is tending the animals.

 And me?

Why I am putting in the fourth load of laundry that day and planning a folding marathon where I sort laundry and literally toss each kid their own clothes to fold

Guess what?

 I learned to be happy in the chaos. I don't have a living room , I have work and play areas. A table in the living room is covered in a 1,000 piece puzzle that people stop to work on on for a few minutes and the coffee table is Katie's craft station.

 There are goldfish on my too small counter, a huge dog who trips anyone walking through the main door and a cat who thinks she owns the most comfortable chair in the house. I warn you, do not try to move the queen! Sometimes a caged hamster or guinea pig squeaks for attention EVERY time the fridge door opens!

My kitchen walls, fridge and cupboards are covered with all kinds of art and scribble art and I have too many indoor plants.

One day my father-in-law tripped over our dog (who did not move, by the way) and he gruffly asked me,

"What is that dog doing in the house? He should live outside."

I laughed and said,

"Welcome to OUR home. We love kids, animals, plants and even y. Just come on in!"

A child is like a magnifying glass

The phone, which was on the kitchen wall, rang after school. Surprisingly, it was for eight year old Melissa, our second child.

My kids didn't actually start a social life after school for another couple of years but this was a crisis.

Angela, the reigning, self proclaimed princess of the grade two class at St. Thomas, had treated poor Audrey terribly all day and she was crying over the phone.

Melissa was sympathetic but did not indulge Audrey's self-pity. She caught Audrey's attention and then said, quite firmly,
"Audrey, how Angela treated you today has NOTHING to do with you; Angela was having a bad day and she took it out on you!


Melissa's wisdom astonished me. I couldn't remember explaining this human tendency to her; she must have learned this information just by being part of our family.

Children learn not by just words and actions but by osmosis. The atmosphere or the "vibe" that fills our homes forms our children, be it loving and accepting or critical and condemning.

A child is like a magnifying glass pointing out our faults, good points and even our unconscious through their words and actions.

Living With Lots of Little People

As a mother of nine kids, people often ask me,

 "How on earth did you manage without any help? "

If I had to divulge one secret that I was fortunate enough to discover early in my mothering career, it would be,

"Never let them get tired and never let them get hungry."

There is a universal image stuck in our brains of  a screaming toddler throwing a tantrum on the floor of a grocery store. Even the best parent is reduced to a helpless victimn in these situations because

nobody is as miserable and disagreeable as a hungry and irritable baby, toddler, or small child.

When I ignored  the warning signs that my kids were reaching their limits of endurance, I created either a clingy, irritating wimp or a screaming monster.Then NOTHING I did or said seemed to help the situation.

I might have LOOKED like a self-sacrificing mother but I was merely acting out of a sense of self-preservation when I put my kids needs first. No time for resentment because happy and satisfied kids were worth every "sacrifice" I made. The peace was worth any compromise.

One niece once told me that many people had given her advice when she became a new mother but the only thing she always remembered and practiced was,

"Never let them get tired and never let them get hungry."

MY Obstetrician: A Knight In SHINING Armour

Our family doctor, who was also my obstetrician, had warned us to come into town immediately with my first labour pains. My eighth child was going to be born quickly. Dr. H met me outside the hospital, helped me out of our old mini-bus, into a wheelchair and literally ran past admitting with a huge grin on his face yelling,

 “Sorry. No time to admit her. I’ll do the paperwork for her after the delivery. See you later!”
He was still chuckling in the elevator over the shocked expression on the admitting clerk’s face. We moved slowly out of the elevator onto the obstetrical floor and Dr. H peered around the corner to check the nursing station. My doctor sighed happily,
“Good. The head nurse is on coffee break and no one is in the natural birthing room. Olga is going to have a fit when she sees your stats on the board and that you are in here!”
He laughed loudly this time as we darted into the softly lit room. Michael walked in a little later, holding 18- month old Katie with her sunsuit on backwards, straps crossed across her chest. A nurse turned to me and said,
“Let me guess. Daddy dressed her.”
I smiled weakly in between labour pains because the nurse barely had time to check my vital signs before Anthony was born. Michael had pulled the curtain around my bed partly closed to block Katie’s view of the labour and delivery. Since she refused the cookie bribe offered by a nurse outside at the station, Katie was still with Michael. As soon as Anthony was born, my husband whipped the curtain open and passed Katie to a nurse so he could cut his son’s umbilical cord.
Michael turned to Dr. H and me as we beamed at each other over the birth of our beautiful baby and yet another successful, humane delivery despite the hospital’s regulations.
When I was pregnant with my sixth child, I went to my first appointment with our new family doctor and now my new obstetrician. He asked me why I was changing doctors and I sighed,
“I just can’t face my old obstetrician with a sixth pregnancy.”
“And who IS this doctor?” He questioned.
“Actually it was Dr. E.”
Well, my new doctor threw his head back and started to laugh,
“She’s a good obstetrician. Her only problem is that she owns a parrot, tropical fish and an expensive horse but doesn’t have any kids. I can understand your problem with her.”
That was the beginning of a wonderful 24 year friendship with our dedicated health care provider. Two of the next four pregnancies high risk. That meant weekly ultra-sounds and check-ups with the high risk doctor in the hospital. My doctor waited, often after office hours, for me to stop in after hospital appointments to get his weekly update. Dr. H explained,
“They would LOVE to get their hands on you. Don’t let them TOUCH you without checking in with me first!”
From my first visit with Dr. H, I no longer had to don protective armour for my emotions before each obstetrical appointment. HE protected my unborn child, my growing children, Michael but most especially me.
This doctor does not follow common procedure mindlessly but uses commonsense (learned from Newfoundland midwives), intelligence (he is an associate professor at the university, an old-fashioned sense of service (he mentors countless med students and residents and is ALWAYS on call for his obstetrical patients) and compassion (he has an uncanny ability to listen and understand each patient).
Best of all, this medical knight in shining armour celebrates each birth with incredible joy.

Fashion Sense? She was BORN with it

Tiny, adorable, clever and independent Emily was also strong-willed, high maintenance and high strung.  My fifth child, Emily was a beautiful little package of contradictions who gave me strife and hilarious joy, sometimes at the very same time.  Most arguments were about clothes. Although her fashion sense has developed into a wonderful gift now that she is in her mid twenties, at three and four-years old this “gift” was a pain.

Emily changed her clothes frequently throughout  the day, from the age of two. Watching one of the few videos of our family, one of my older daughters pointed at the screen and laughed,

                             

“Look at Emily. That is the third time she has changed clothes during this video!”

 Sure enough, the pip squeak had another outfit on.

Emily is on the left

 Emily was always aware of what she was wearing as well as those around her, which often led to disagreements about what she could and could not wear. Although she was a mature, articulate, fashion conscious three-year old, I was still concerned that Emily was too young to start four-year old kindergarten. When she stomped into the house after the first morning, ranting about a little girl who had worn a “jean skirt with a MATCHING jean jacket”, I realized that it was the school which was not quite ready for EMILY

.

Alas, Emily’s attention soon turned to her busy mother.  I sometimes pulled on stockings, brushed my hair and applied a touch of make-up once I had climbed into our huge 13 seat mini-bus.  I barely had enough time to make sure my dress was clean and my teeth were brushed before I hustled everyone out the door. This changed when my daughters were in their late teens because they organized an all out assault to bring me into the 21st century. They took me to a hair salon for a cut and dye make-over, plucked my eyebrows, bought me clothes and make-up and forced me to throw out decade old comfy clothes. Emily has been the most persistent fashion advisor, however.

One evening as I tried to rush out of the house, Emily looked up from her homework and asked,                                 

“Are you going out?”

I answered in the affirmative.

Emily continued, “And you’re wearing THAT?”

I nodded slowly.  I knew the direction that this conversation was headed.

“I don’t think so”, she added, “Remember the navy pants that Melissa bought you for Christmas and the top that Rachel gave you on Mother’s Day? That would look really sharp with my light blue scarf and my little black belt. Could you PLEASE try it on?”

I sighed and trudged back upstairs because it was easier just to comply. I must admit that she was right. Of course, once I came down, Emily had to jump up to adjust the belt and re-tie the scarf but as a result of listening to my daughter’s fashion advice, she was pleased and Michael, my husband, was pleasantly surprised.

 Really though, Emily is an expert at changing outfits. She has been practicing since she was two-years old.

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"BUT Cecil is still up!"

Everyone else had left the funeral home as Cecil’s family and mine shared another amusing memory and laughed together.  I had broken the ice with the first story but soon everyone spoke up and added their favourite memory of Cecil and the Juneau’s. The atmosphere was reminiscent of a traditional Irish wake.

I looked around the circle at our former neighbour’s smiles and I was surprised, surprised that the antics of our large family had been so entertaining and memorable to Cecil and his clan.  I had simply done whatever came to my mind to keep a lot of little people busy, safe and happy.  Now teenagers, Cecil’s grand-daughters were still delighted with my summer tradition of filling a baby bathtub with ice and snow from my old-fashioned freezer. They played for more than an hour with spoons, cups, bowls and food colouring as I kept the tub filled with frosty snow.

Cecil’s widow especially enjoyed the memory of our “walks” down our short, dead-end country lane. It was a virtual parade that consisted of children all under 12 vying for the opportunity to push the baby in a buggy, a toddler riding on a wagon, dutifully pulled by one of the older kids, a pre-school child sitting on bright yellow duck with wheels, bikes and tricycles ridden in circles around younger siblings and me, usually pregnant, sipping a nice hot cup of tea and walking as slowly as possible.

I think that Cecil’s kindness was symbolized best by the image of my two-year old son sitting on his knee “helping “ cut grass with Cecil’s lawn tractor. Matthew was thrilled with the chance to sit on the small tractor, even when it was parked.  This excitement never dimmed.  As Matthew grew, he  had to stand on the back of the tractor and finally by seven-years old, he could no longer hitch a ride but could only WALK behind the tractor. My son was still out there with Cecil, walking up and down the rows of grass for countless hours because Cecil was Matthews’s best friend in those days with the foundation of their friendship rooted in their mutual love of tractors.

One evening, around 7:30, after Matthew’s bath, I called him for a bedtime story. Matthew had been peering out the window, watching Cecil work in his garden. This three year-old turned to me and wondered why HE had to go to bed,

“BUT Cecil is still up!”